It's Wrong
by Flairvoyant
Summary: Melchior, a broken soul is reunited with his old classmate Hanschen at the reformatory. A dark story of inner turmoil and frustrated emotions. Can a relationship truly flourish in such a corrupt place?


Author Note: Hi, guys! This story has been floating around in my head for a long time. I always wanted to do a grungy, dark romance story and finally thought that I'd type it out. If you guys are interested in the story, please don't hesitate to tell me and I'll continue to write it.

Melchior was too busy blowing smoke rings into the frosty air to notice the new boy at first. It wasn't as if the arrival of a new kid was particularly unusual anyway; about a dozen fresh, wide eyed boys had turned up since Melchior's first sighting of the reformatory, the lofty red brick building which had turned a dark auburn from the dirt and filth from the air and the boys' putrid minds. He smiled wryly to himself as he considered how quickly each person had attempted to keep some vague sense of decorum at first before swiftly collapsing to the immoral characters that they had been put in the reformatory for. Of course, some of the boys deserved it: Rupert, the lascivious schizophrenic with a painfully short fuse, or maybe Ulbrecht, the boy with a penchant for dead dogs and birds. Of course, they were dreadful people and deserved their fate, but when you spend that long in a reformatory, the lines between right and wrong become a little blurred and even cold blooded murder can be seen as an innocent slip of the hand.

Melchior had stubbed out his cigarette and was already reaching for another when he finally caught sight of the boy at the tall cast iron gates. The boy stood upright, wearing his grey felt coat well, holding a heavy, brown overnight bag that would no doubt be looted as soon as he put it down. His hair was a brilliant blonde that was almost as pale as his milky white skin and his cheekbones protruded underneath deep set eyes. It took Melchior a few moments to realise quite who he was and another couple to overcome the surprise that he was there in the first place. He walked over to him, a smirk curled on his lips.

"Rilow," he said, his voice coarse.

"Gabor," the other replied with a curt nod.

They must have looked quite a pair: Melchior hunched, his clothes torn and filthy and Hanschen, his hair brushed and shoes neatly polished. Hanschen looked about the grounds, a look of disdain on his fine features. Melchior simply shrugged.

"So what are you in for?"

"Various things."

"You don't care to share them?"

"No, I do not."

Melchior sighed and clicked his tongue. "You know what I'm in here for, right?" Of course he did. Everyone did.

"Yes, I do."

"I fucked a girl."

"Fraulein Bergman."

"...Yes." The name sounded harsh to Melchior's ears. He still wasn't used to hearing her name since he had last left the reformatory.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but she di..."

"I know...she died. I know."

"I'm sorry..."

"It's fine."

There was a pause and Melchior tugged out his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and held them out to Hanschen who politely declined. The dark haired boy looked at the warden who was already eyeing him with a look of suspicion and carefully put the cigarettes back in to his pocket. It was odd seeing Hanschen like this, almost vulnerable. He had always thought of him as the ideal pupil, a paragon of a typical German boy, carefully treading within his boundaries and never daring to overstep them. He was the type of boy which Melchior found to be distasteful, although apparently something had changed since then. He smirked slightly and clapped Hanschen on the back in what he thought to be a vaguely comforting manner.

"How about I show you to the dorms?"

"That will not be necessary," the stiff warden interrupted, his city accent thick. "Herr Rilow will be staying in his own personal quarters." Melchior groaned inwardly; there was only one reason why he wouldn't be sleeping in the same quarters as the others.

"Fucking fag," he muttered under his breath, almost feeling a twang of sympathy towards him for the hassle that he was going to receive from everyone else. Hanschen glared at him, a look of restrained anger in his eyes, his jaw clenched. Melchior avoided eye contact and instead turned to the warden. "Can I show him to _that _room then?" The warden paused, contemplating the idea before nodding, apparently pleased to be rid of the business of having to accompany such a boy. Melchior turned back to Hanschen whose expression was still seething and rolled his eyes, gesturing for Hanschen to follow him. He lead him through the high walled, narrow corridors and up the cold stone steps until they reached Room 418. God, Room 418, poor bastard; the room for queers and perverts, shoved in to the far east wing of the building, away from other forms of life in the hope that the disease would not corrupt the rest. It had worked thus far, Melchior supposed. Most of them didn't last long; endless jeering and shouts had gotten the best of them and every so often the latest victim wouldn't come to the compulsory dinner and instead spend their time lying in the slowly filling bathtub or on the ground beneath the second story window. Poor bastards. Hanschen carefully opened the door and placed his leather bag on the bed, unpacking his belongings. Melchior watched his stoic, controlled manner and smirked.

"They'll roughen you up here," he said with a wry smile. Hanschen didn't bother to turn around.

"I doubt that they'll even dare go near me, let alone _roughen me up_, Gabor."

"Do you think you deserve to be here for what you've done?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

There was a pause as Melchior watched Hanschen unpack his items neatly on to the rickety wooden desk: two crisp white shirts, a pair of tweed trousers and a box of toiletries. Hanschen halted as he reached the bottom of the bag, staring at it, his brow furrowed.

"I suppose so. You shouldn't have done that. It's wrong." Hanschen laughed.

"Out of all the people that I thought would have understood..." he said, trailing off. He seemed calm and composed but Melchior noticed that he was gripping the table so hard that his knuckles had turned white. He tried to ignore it and instead peered in to the bag and saw, at the bottom, their school photograph. He stared at it for a moment, gazing at the faded sepia and frozen smiles from years past.

"You packed _that_? Why would you do that?" Hanschen shook his head instantly, his tone becoming cold.

"I didn't. It must have gotten mixed in my things. I have no reason to pack some stupid photograph." He tossed the photograph in to the wastepaper basket and glared and Melchior. "I think you had better go now. You don't want anyone to start getting ideas about you." Melchior froze for a moment, staring back at the other boy defiantly before eventually nodding. People could call him whatever they wanted. He probably _was_ most of them but if there was one thing he wasn't, it was gay.


End file.
